Sunday, 24 March 2013


Last Tuesday my muse
Packed a spare drape and a string of pearls
In a small, brass-bound, water-tight chest,
And flounced out,- though
Not before delivering a homily:

YOU, she said, pointedly, are a

Lying on the settee
Drinking Tea
Watching tv
e n d l e s s l y
Playing Hearts on your
B l o o d y iPad.

I could see she was upset, so I looked up,
And said, not without sympathy:

Look, I USED to be a poet.

I flung words onto a page and watched them burn.

I slipped between sheets of paper;
I slapped a metaphor and
Tickled a simile but, I ask you,
Where did it get me?

'Precisely!' Hissed the pissed muse.

I ignored the point, but -

I had to smile.

'Slam the door behind you, won't you?' I requested,

A split infinity too late.

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